


Tim Pennyworth

by April_Ace



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Alfred Pennyworth-centric, Angst and Drama, BAMF Alfred Pennyworth, Bad Parents Jack and Janet Drake, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Drama, Gen, Good Parent Alfred Pennyworth, Hurt Tim Drake, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Jason Todd Has Issues, Jason Todd is Bad at Feelings, Jason Todd is Robin, No Sex, Racism, Tim Drake Has Issues, Tim Drake-centric, Trauma, Unreliable Narrator, tim drake does what he wants
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-27
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:54:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27233062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/April_Ace/pseuds/April_Ace
Summary: An AU where 11 year old Tim Drake is fostered by Alfred while Jason is still living at the manor.What kind of parent will Alfred be?
Relationships: Alfred Pennyworth & Bruce Wayne, Tim Drake & Alfred Pennyworth, Tim Drake & Bruce Wayne, Tim Drake & Jason Todd
Comments: 64
Kudos: 490





	1. Alfred

**Author's Note:**

> I know some of Alfred's views are problematic. I wrote him that way on purpose. He's an old white man. 
> 
> I have no idea how social services/CPS works. I imagine overworked, underpaid somewhat jaded people with high case loads and few good outcomes, most of whom are doing their best with limited time and resources. However if anything is really obviously wrong and you think I should fix it, let me know in the comments.

Wayne Manor is buzzing and bustling with sound and energy. Men and women in uniform hurry about, cleaning and scrubbing and organising.

Alfred is the one still figure in all the activity, surveying the workers closely. Master Bruce is too paranoid to use the same cleaning service all the time, likes to rotate a few good firms whenever the house is scheduled for a deep clean. This time it's the turn of the Wash Outs, a service that employees reformed convicts, former sex workers and drug addicts out of rehab.

They had Selina Kyle's influence to thank for _that_ one.

Alfred is _not_ a snob, but he firmly believes there's no sense in inviting trouble.

The house phone rings through to his cell, buzzing in his vest pocket. Keeping his eyes on the men currently attempting to replace the burnt out lights in the foyer chandelier (a good thirty feet above the floor), he answers.

"Wayne Manor."

"Hello, this is Angie Rice, I'm a social worker with Child Protective Services. I was looking for Mr Wayne, is he available?"

Alfred tenses, wondering if perhaps CPS has finally noticed that a certain 17 year old is no longer where they left him.

_Only took three months._

"May I ask what this is regarding?"

"Who is speaking, please? I'm looking for Mr _Wayne."_ comes the cold reply.

"I am Alfred Pennyworth, ma'am, Mr Wayne's butler and head of security," He answers, not letting any frost into his own voice. If this was about Dick, he'll need all the leverage he can get. "Mr Wayne is unavailable. May I be of assistance?"

"Oh," she sighs, sounding harried. "I've been trying to reach him on his cell phone all week. When do you expect him to become available?"

"Not for some weeks. The family are on a camping holiday. I believe the cell phone reception is poor where they are. If you would like to leave a message..."

"Oh, just nevermind," she snaps, and then huffs an annoyed sigh as if Alfred had personally offended her. "Sorry to waste your time," she grumbles, then hangs up.

He slides the phone back into his pocket, perplexed.

That had been extremely odd.

*

Three days later Angie Rice calls again.

"May I speak to Mr. Alfred Pennyworth, please?"

"Speaking."

"Hi! Mr Pennyworth, my name is Angie Rice. I'm so glad to finally reach you!" She chirps, as if she had not spoken to Alfred before. He doesn't point this out, however, and instead politely enquires what her call is about.

"Mr Pennyworth, we have you down as a foster carer in our records. I understand you have previously been a temporary foster carer for two boys, um... Jason Todd and Richard Grayson?"

"Only to fill the gap when their current guardian is unavailable," Alfred confirms.

"Ah, that would be..."

"Bruce Wayne," he replies patiently. "My employer. I am Mr Wayne's butler and live full time with the Wayne family."

"Right, right. Unfortunately we haven't been able to reach Mr Wayne."

"Is that so," he can't suppress the dry reply. He's fairly certain now that this woman is not going to ask where Dick is, so he feels more comfortable with mildly snarky replies.

Perhaps her memory of their last phone call isn't so foggy after all, as she ignores his comment and hurriedly goes on in an aggressively cheerful tone.

"Anywho, we have a young boy here that we _desperately_ need to place. He's not thriving in his current placement. We'd very much like to place him with you."

"Mr Wayne applied to become a foster carer specifically to care for the two boys currently with us."

"Yes, but you _are_ still a registered foster carer, Mr Pennyworth, and as the boy is rather high profile we ideally want to place him in a home with an appropriate level of security."

Alfred closes his eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose. Her cheerful sing-song voice is beyond aggravating.

"High profile?"

"Kidnapping risk."

"I have not undergone an inspection from CPS recently," he points out.

"But Mr Wayne has, and you just said you live with him, right? The living situation for the boys in Mr Wayne's care underwent recent inspection by social services."

No, it hadn't. However, Alfred knows the computer records in front of Ms. Rice show otherwise.

"What's the boy's name?"

"Tim Drake."

*

That evening a car pulls up to the manor gates. When the intercom buzzes, Alfred directs the driver to follow the road around to the kitchen entrance.

The stocky young man with Tim is certainly not Angie Rice. "Alfred Pennyworth?" he asks in a deep voice after double checking the file in his hand. He shakes hands without actually giving his name or waiting for Alfred to confirm his own identity.

"And this is Tim. Come say hi, kid!" he gestures forward a small boy Alfred recognises from a couple of social events the Drakes had attended at Wayne Manor. 

"Hi," Tim mumbles, barely glancing at him. Alfred frowns. Tim's left eye is swollen shut, with bruising extending from his temple down his cheek. His lip is split. He's clutching both straps of his backpack tightly, his right hand in a wrist brace.

"Hello, Timothy. It's nice to see you." _Again,_ he almost says. He's not sure that social services realises that the Drakes, as high profile Gotham socialites, are acquainted with the Waynes. Bruce isn't _friends_ with them by any means, but they still move in the same circles. It's possible social services wouldn't consider letting the boy stay with people who may be in contact with his family.

Instead he gestures to the doorway, where warm light is spilling out into the cool April evening. "Shall we go inside?"

The social worker follows them inside the servant's entrance and through to the kitchen. "Something smells good!" He announces, looking towards the stove top where a leek and potato soup is simmering. He declines Alfred's invitation to stay for dinner, citing more work to do at the office before he can knock off for the day.

"Good luck, Tim," he claps Tim on the shoulder. "Any problems, give me a call. You got my business card."

"Yeah. Thanks, Kyle." Tim murmurs, watching as Alfred sees _Kyle_ out.

"Can you tell me why Timothy has been removed from his home?" He asks, once they're outdoors.

Kyle hesitates.

"It's an ongoing case," he says reluctantly. "With the police." he adds when Alfred just stares. "Kid's likely to be in the system for a while, I'd say." He adds.

"I see. Thank you."

After Kyle leaves, Alfred finds Tim standing in the same spot in the kitchen. The boy doesn't seem to notice him at first, staring absently into the glow of the electric fire. He looks _exhausted,_ still fingering the straps of his bag as though worried it will be snatched off him.

It's odd the boy has only the one bag. Jason came to the manor with one bag, it's true, but he had been homeless. He'd come to their home with literally everything he owned on his back.

Tim Drake is the only child of a rich and privileged family. There is no chance that everything he owns is in that bag. He frowns, remembering what Kyle said about the police investigating.

He comes up to Tim and kneels down, not wanting to startle him. "Are you hungry, Timothy?"

"No, sir," Tim shakes his head dully, then suddenly becomes more alert. "Um, I mean- yes please, I'd like to eat."

Alfred recognises the impulse not to turn down food from Jason's early days. If you pass up the opportunity to eat, you can't be sure when you'll get another chance.

He wonders if Tim has learned this habit from his short time in the group home, or if the injuries he's sustained are not the only reason he'd been removed from his parents' care.

He smiles. "You must be very tired. Why don't I show you your room, and then I'll bring up some soup and you can eat there. Just this once, mind."

Tim nods, wincing when he absentmindedly bites his lip, forgetting the wound there. Alfred leads him back into the servant's entrance, thinking privately that he will need to add some ice cubes to the soup to cool it so it won't hurt the boy's mouth, and relieved that he hadn't made a spicier dish.

There are two entrances to the kitchen. One leads deeper into the areas of the manor occupied by the family. The other leads to the servant's entrance, a hallway with an door to the outside on one end and a set of stairs on the other.

As they walk through the hall they pass the entrance to the laundry room and the walk-in pantry.

As part of the contract Alfred had established with Bruce shortly after Batman made his appearance, the entire servant's wing had been converted into a set of rooms for Alfred's exclusive use and sole occupancy. 

He glances at the boy following dazedly up the stairs behind him.

Well, sole occupancy until _now._

At the top of the stairs he unlocks the door, and they step inside.


	2. Tim

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim gets to know his new home and goes back to school. Sort of.

The next few days pass in a haze for Tim. 

He knows he should be super excited to be living in _Wayne Manor_ , but even when Alfred showed him around the big house, he hadn't been able to muster up much enthusiasm. He's just _all done in,_ as Alfred says.

Besides, he's not _exactly_ living in Wayne Manor. Or at least he is in the manor, but mostly he's inside Alfred's home _in_ the manor.

Alfred has been very nice. First, he insisted that Tim not call him Mr Pennyworth. "Mr Pennyworth was my mother," he said in a tone that told Tim he was joking. Tim didn't get the joke but he made a little laugh anyway, deciding it must be an English thing.

Alfred was very English. Tim liked it. The man reminded him a little of Mrs Mac, the housekeeper at his parents' house. She was Scottish. And English and Scottish was basically the same thing, right?

Alfred served Tim pancakes with blueberries, waffles or French toast every morning, and let Tim sleep on the couch in front of the TV in the afternoons, buried under a handmade afghan. 

He was excused from school for a few more days, and Alfred had informed him that the Waynes would be away until after Tim went back to class.

So it was just the two of them.

Tim had met Alfred a couple of times before; he was generally prominent at any event hosted in Wayne Manor. He'd never paid him much mind before, just the stiff looking old guy whose job was corralling his seemingly bubbly, air-headed boss. 

Up close, he seemed very ordinary. He was all neat and lean and well turned-out; about medium height for a man, he guessed, and somewhere between late-middle-age and old (Tim wasn’t very good at ages). His hairline was receding at the temples, but he wasn’t bald, and the colour was an indeterminate shade between gray and dark brown. 

But for all his prim and proper formality, Alfred somehow put him in mind of a hunting dog. Like an old greyhound, Tim thought. Something alert, even while relaxed. His pale eyes were sharp and watchful. 

A couple of times while wandering vaguely around, he’d overheard Alfred talking about him on the phone. Talking to the social workers or the police, he thought. But Tim just turned right around and went the other way, not wanting to know. He didn't want to know what was going to happen next. Right now, he was perfectly happy to hope that "next" would only include a warm, quiet room and more waffles.

In the early days Tim mainly napped in his new room, or else zoned out in front of the TV in the little sitting room, while Alfred would go down to the main house to do whatever work needed doing there. 

During meals Alfred would ask if he was sleeping well, if he liked the food and what subjects did he like best at school. And Tim would try to shake off his brain-fog and exert himself to speak and ask questions in turn. Slowly, they began to know each other better.

After a nice lunch on a day when Tim was feeling much more chatty, and had actually laughed at one of Alfred's weird Englishman jokes, Alfred had explained the house rules.

By this time he was acquainted well enough with the butler not to be very surprised when he started with food.

"You don't have to eat everything on your plate, but you must at least _try_ the vegetables. If you are hungry between meals please tell me." 

They were sitting together in the kitchennette, under a window overlooking the grounds. Tim was drinking the _best hot chocolate he’d ever had._ "You may help yourself to snacks here and in the main house, but please do try to tidy after yourself." 

Tim nodded, licking chocolate off his lip. The cut there was healing up pretty well, but he has to stop himself from picking at it.

"You can play outside, but let me know before you go out. The grounds are very large and I need to know where you are."

"Yes, sir."

"Timothy, you don't need to call me sir. Just Alfred will do, remember."

Tim smiled, mumbled an OK. Alfred smiled back and continued.

"On school nights you must be in the house by dinner time by six o'clock. We'll eat with with the family in the main house most nights." He says this with a faintly disapproving frown, as though he didn't think it was very proper to eat with Mr Wayne. "After school, you may do your homework up here or down in the library, and I will check your work - I already do so for Master Jason. 

“After dinner, you are to be back in this apartment, unless one of the family has invited you to stay longer downstairs.” He pauses here, looking very serious. “Please remember that the main house is my place of work, and the family are my employers. We are not to make a nuisance of ourselves, are we?"

“No si- Alfred,” he answered, privately dismayed. He'd never really had any restriction on his comings and goings when he lived with his parents. 

_Or at least_ , he amended dismally, _when I lived in the house they_ owned.

If Alfred was going to be hanging around every night to make sure Tim was in bed, he'd never get a chance to go into town to take pictures of Batman and Robin. That would be totally annoying, to live in Batman's house but never see Batman, when he used to live miles away and saw Batman all the time!

But then Alfred said, "On most evenings there is work I need to do in the main house. It's mainly administrative tasks that I don't have time to complete in the day."

"Oh - that’s OK. I’m OK by myself at night." Tim hurriedly assured him, biting back the automatic impulse to ask what kind of work. There was next to no chance Alfred didn't know that his boss was Batman, so probably "administrative tasks" meant secret Batman work.

There had been times when Tim had been near enough to Batman to hear him speaking to someone through some kind of earpiece. He now suspected that someone was Alfred.

He smiles again. It's pretty cool that he's being taken care of by the same guy who takes care of _Batman._ But more importantly, it sounds like Alfred would be elsewhere in the giant house in the evenings, so _maybe_ sneaking into the city with his camera sometimes wasn't totally off the table.

"However, you can reach me anytime on this," Alfred hands Tim a smartphone and charger. 

Opening up the home screen he sees that Alfred's personal number is programmed in already.

Tim had a phone. Mrs Mac had brought it to him when she'd visited him in the hospital. But it had been taken away so that his parents couldn't contact him with it. That phone had all of his chat history, including the messages he’d gotten from his mom and dad on his last birthday.

He didn't know if he would see that phone again. 

*

The day after Leslie, Alfred's doctor friend, comes to visit Alfred (but really, Tim knows, to meet _him)_ , Kyle the social worker drops off some of his things from home.

Tim has to go back to class at Gotham Academy in a week, and his school bag and nearly all his clothes are still at home. He had come to Wayne manor only with the stuff Mrs Mac had brought to the hospital. Along with his phone, the old lady had packed Tim some spare underwear, an extra pair of jeans, a couple of t-shirts, Tim's toothbrush, a bit of money, and his camera.

Tim had been bemused by the items. He wasn't _that_ sick, he'd reasoned, so couldn't he just change his underwear when he got home? And why did she bring his camera?

Mrs Mac had smiled at him but looked nervous, and then the police and a social worker had come to talk to him, and his phone had been taken away. And Tim hadn't gone home after all.

Alfred had given him some new clothes not long after Tim arrived, of a style so high-end that Tim thinks he might sink through the floor from embarassment when he opens the first bag Kyle hands him and pulls out his ratty old Superman t-shirt.

He feels his cheeks heat up and just prays that Alfred, standing next to him, doesn't notice.

Kyle's brought all his dorkiest clothes. Or maybe all his clothes were always dorky. Or maybe _all_ normal clothes look dorky when inspected by a supremely refined English butler.

He spies his Green Lantern pajama bottoms peeking out for the top, and hastily scrunches the bag closed.

He opens up the second black trash bag of his belongings, and finds his school stuff, laptop and what looks like every single comic book from Tim's overstuffed bookshelf.

"Do you like to read, Tim?" Alfred politely asks, so there's no way he didn't see the comics, too.

Kyle laughs way too loudly.

"Thought you might want them back, kiddo!" he booms, then starts doing fake punches and karate chops in the air like a man having a psychotic break. "BAM! POW! _Blammo!_ Pretty cool, right Timmy?"

Tim decides not to check what sort of face Alfred is making.

*

On Tim's first day back in Gotham Academy, he doesn't argue with Alfred about putting on a plain, respectable polo shirt. But when Alfred tries to make him wear pressed khaki trousers and shiny black shoes, Tim puts his foot down.

"I can't wear those to school, that's like, fancy party clothes." He argues, while Alfred looks aghast at the suggestion that one would dress so casually for a formal party. "I'll get beat up! And those shoes'll get stolen! No one dresses like that for school."

"Master Jason wears the same clothes and he attends the same school." Alfred counters, eyebrows arching. Tim tries not to roll his eyes. Not being able to pick out his own outfits is just another weird quirk of having full time adult supervision.

"Yeah, cuz Jason’s _cool,"_ Tim explains patiently. "When everyone thinks you’re cool and stuff, you can just wear what you want. The rest of us gotta, you know, be less targety, OK?"

In the end Alfred had relented and allowed Tim to wear his jeans and sneakers, but Tim was sure it was just because the man felt sorry for him. Doctor Thompkins had visited yesterday and had removed the wrist brace, declaring Tim’s hand healed. But his face is still pretty banged up, and he feels the stares from other students as he walks into his first class. 

He knew the school admin had been informed of his change of circumstances, it was one of the conversations he'd overheard between Alfred and social services. He was half expecting to be pulled out of class at any moment to go talk to the guidance councillor, but as the morning ticked steadily toward lunch, that started to seem less likely. Which was _fine_ by Tim.

He's got more important things to do.

At the lunch hour bell he ducks out of class before Ives can snag him and ask a million questions. In the general rush of kids milling toward the cafeteria, it's easy to slip outside and escape unobserved. He heads for a bus stop on his usual route, but out of view of the school building, and when his home bus turns up he buys a single ticket with some of the money Mrs Mac had given him at the hospital.

The bus trip will take fifteen minutes, and lunch is only forty-five minutes. However, after lunch he has study hall, and depending on who is supervising today - the perpetually hungover gym teacher, or the mean librarian - it's possible his absence won't be noted if he's not _too_ late.

The bus drops him around the corner from his parents' townhouse. Conscious of time, he practically sprints the distance but then wastes five minutes just staring at the house, wondering if his parents were maybe there after all.

_Stupid. They're not even in the country right now._

Eventually he makes himself move, entering through the front door with his own house key for the first time in weeks. He closes the door and leans his back against it, swallowing nervously. 

Straight ahead are the stairs that lead up to his bedroom. Off to his left, the hall opens into the parlour, and beyond that the kitchen. And through the kitchen is the utility room, where the door leading to the basement is.

Tim _makes_ himself walk at a normal speed up the stairs instead of running like his stupid legs want him too.

_This is important. Don't fuck this up!_

His bedroom looks the same, except for the empty closet and the gaps in his bookshelf where the comicbooks were. He wishes he could grab his Terry Pratchett novels too, but Alfred would ask where they came from and Tim can't tell him. 

Sifting through the junk in his bedside table, he finds the screwdriver. Tim kneels down in front of the wall vent and carefully unscrews all four corners, then pulls away the vent face.

Reaching in, he takes out the lockbox with a sigh of relief so loud it nearly startles him in the relative quiet. A knot of tension he hadn't even realised he'd been carrying seems to uncoil in his belly, making him feel loose and limp, suddenly aware of the sweat that's soaked through his new top.

The combination box is still securely fastened shut, and Tim tries to cram it into his backpack but there's no space with his school books. Impatiently he yanks out his history text book and drops it into the vent. There, now the box fits.

He replaces the vent cover and screwdriver and heads out without a second glance.

He checks the time on his way downstairs and yelps in surprise when he sees how late it is. This took a lot longer than he'd planned, and if he waits for the next bus he'll be twenty minutes late for study hall.

_I can make it if I ride my bike._

Sure, his bike. It's in the utility room. He hesitates for one agonising moment before moving deeper into the house.

He doesn't allow himself time to think, just darts through the hall, the parlour, the kitchen, and there, in the utility room is his bike. And there, the door to the basement is standing open, like a dare.

He snatches the handlebars with numb fingers and steers the bike hurriedly back through the house to the front door. His mom would be really mad that he tracked the bike through the whole house instead of going out the back door, and the dread that thought brings nearly overwhelms him. _She’ll be really mad, she'll be really mad, she'll be really mad._

Once outside he throws himself onto the bike and peddles away as fast as he can, focusing on putting as much distance between himself and the house as possible.

By the time he remembers he's supposed to head back to school, instead of just _away,_ study hall is nearly over.


	3. Alfred

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfie loves his new smol son.
> 
> And he loves his old son's smol son, god damn it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I read everyone's comments and they give me life. Stepping into the fanon space of Tim Drake origin stories is a bit intimidating given the incredible fics that already exist in that trope. I also don't have a beta so feel free to point out any spelling mistakes.

Long experience with various wayward orphans had given Alfred confidence in his ability to comfort and support a traumatised child.

Tim had spent the first week wandering around the flat in a daze, still recovering from the shocking turn his life had so recently taken. The boy is pale-faced and drooping all round; his hair is drooping, his downcast eyes, his thin little shoulders. 

Often, Alfred has to call his name several times before Tim notices. At other times the boy practically jumps out of his skin no matter how gently Alfred addresses him.

He applies his tried and tested strategy of combining patience, a stable routine and frequent, filling meals, and before long Tim's dull demeanour and anxious formality melts into sweetly shy friendliness. 

_ The resilience of children is God’s one true miracle _ , he thinks. The more days that pass in tranquility, the more Tim reminds him of a neglected plant gradually blooming into verdant radiance.   


It turns out that Tim is a bit of a chatterbox, in the right circumstances. The child is funny, witty and charming. It saddens Alfred to see how much he glows with the smallest amount of approval. 

"You know who he reminds me of?" Leslie Thompkins remarks with a smile, her eyes meeting Alfred’s over the rim of her coffee mug. 

It's a cool, bright Spring afternoon a few days before Tim’s first day back in school. They're sitting together on the patio behind the manor. She glances out at Tim gamboling around the garden, poking into tree stumps and pointing his camera at a flock of starlings spy-hopping in the grass.

Alfred just smiles. It's not really a question; they both know who she's referring to.

"And you’re just determined to keep him, aren’t you?” 

He makes a non-commital hum, but Leslie has always been able to see through him.

There had been several more phone calls with Tim’s social worker in the days since the boy had been here. It still makes him angry to recall the specific details of the appalling negligence on the part of the Drakes that had led to their son being taken away.

Although social services aimed to reunite families wherever possible, it had not been long after Tim’s arrival that Alfred had resolved that the boy would not be returning to his parents. Not if he had anything to say about it.

Besides, Jack and Janet Drake are not even in the country. There's been no indication that they knew or cared that they no longer have custody of their son. The police are still trying to track them down. Alfred had been assured that they would certainly be arrested as soon as they returned.

_ As well they should be.  _

"Alfred?" comes Tim's tentative voice suddenly from very close.

He turns in some surprise to see the child standing poised on his toes a few feet away. 

With Tim’s prominent, pointy nose and bright eyes, he looks very bird-like himself. He must be exceptionally light on his feet to have covered the distance from the field to the patio so quickly and quietly.

"Yes, Timothy?"

"OK so I was watching those birds there? And they're all looking for food and stuff? But there was one, and it's not looking for food at all, it just sits there and a bunch of the other birds are feeding it, just putting worms and stuff right into its mouth, and it just sits there!" he tells them, thrumming with an intense energy that, judging from Leslie's expression, she also recognises.

They wait expectantly as he pauses for dramatic effect.

"I think that bird is an extortionist."

Leslie coughs and has to hide her laugh behind the mug. Alfred, sadly, is not holding his mug so he must carefully school his expression into one of serious consideration as he replies.

"Hm. Perhaps," he concedes. "For my part, I think it is likely to be some manner of courtship ritual."

"Like, mating? Maybe..." Tim’s brow furrows. “But what if that bird has contacts with like cats and stuff? And if the other birds don't give him the best food, he'll put a  _ hit _ on them.”

Alfred carefully doesn’t glance at Leslie, knowing that if he were to do so there would be no chance either of them could keep a straight face. 

“Some birds can talk you know,” Tim continues, still thrumming with earnest energy. “I read that in the  _ Smithsonian,  _ not just repeat what people say but really think about things? I bet a smart one could arrange a cat-hit.” 

The boy looks between them, eyebrows raised with precocious frankness. “You know, not everything is about  _ sex _ , Alfred.” 

"Tim, let me take a look at that wrist, will you?" Leslie, bless her, interrupts to save him from potentially laughing in the boy’s face. "You were practically turning cartwheels out there, young man."

"I can't do cartwheels at all," Tim sighs, as though he considers this a major flaw in his abilities. 

"Just wait until Dick comes home," she replies, gently turning his wrist back and forth. "He'll have you flying through the trees."

Alfred gives her a look. "Bite your tongue, madam."

*

Alfred is ironing sheets in the laundry room when he gets the call from Tim’s school. 

It’s only the boy’s first day back, and although he’d given Alfred no reason to expect trouble, he’s not  _ that  _ surprised by the summons. 

He walks into Gotham Academy’s front office less than half an hour later. As he follows the young receptionist to the principal’s office, he spots Timothy slouched morosely in a chair outside the office door.

Tim catches his eye and Alfred gives him a small smile so he’ll know he’s not angry, then the office door closes between them.

“Mr Pennyworth, it is good to see you, sir,” the principal, Mr Brandt greets him with warmth. Alfred shakes hands with civility, though he doesn’t much care for the man. 

“Can I just say, I was delighted to hear you’re taking on Tim Drake. Finally a parent I can count on to answer the phone!” The man’s laugh instantly sets his teeth on edge. He hopes the door isn’t thin enough for Tim to have heard that callous remark.

“Mr Brandt, I was told that Timothy skipped class today?” 

The man clears his throat, sitting at his desk.

“Study hall, and half of American History,” he acknowledges. “And he claims to have lost his history textbook. You know we charge for replacements.”

“I am aware,” Alfred replies. “Where was Timothy, if not in class?”

A shrug. “He says he was in the gym.”

Alfred frowns. 

“He missed all of study hall, and was late to his next class, you say? Did neither of his teachers alert you of his absence before he returned?”

Brandt sighs with evident annoyance. 

“Look, you know what our class sizes are. The staff have limited time; is it any wonder if they prioritise the kids who actually  _ want _ to be here?”

“But I’m sure you’ve been informed of his circumstances. Is there not a safeguarding process for students returning after traumatic life changes?” 

“Look, Mr Pennyworth,” Brandt says again, then hesitates, reorganises his thoughts. “You haven’t known Tim for very long, right?” 

Alfred allows as to how that’s true. 

“Well, he’s not a… look, he’s a great kid. Really bright. And I’m sympathetic to his difficult home life. But he’s a known troublemaker. This type of behaviour is, well, par for the course with Tim Drake.” He tries for a rueful smile but it slides off in the face of Alfred’s stony disdain.

Tim, a troublemaker? He thinks about how, yesterday, Tim had followed him around Wayne Manor, reading a copy of  _ The Night Manager _ aloud while Alfred dusted. 

_ “‘There is no one better than a good Englishman and no one worse than a bad one. I have observed you. I think you are a good one.’ Sheesh, this writer really like English guys, huh? Oh oops, you missed a spot - I’ll get it.” _

Brandt has no idea what he’s talking about, and he’s sure the man must read that summation in his expression as his tone becomes defensive. 

“Take a look for yourself.” Brandt pulls a thick file out of one of the filing cabinets behind him and slaps it dramatically on the desk. 

It’s quite enormous. The principal makes a rather rude go-ahead gesture at him. Alfred observes him with cold dignity until the man wilts under his gaze.  _ Then  _ he picks up the file and begins to tick through the contents while Brandt prattles on at him.

“...Of course, we try to give every child the attention they need, and I pride myself that our staff have always shown exceptional compassion-”

“Why has Timothy not been expelled?” Alfred interrupts the stream of bullshit, looking up from the file.

“Excuse me?”

“There are serious infractions in here, and Timothy has only attended Gotham Academy for a year and a half. Why is he still a student here?”

“I don’t understand; I… we give even our most troubled students every chance to improve.”

“Then why is it whenever Jason Todd steps one toe out of line, he is threatened with expulsion, I wonder?”

“I - that’s not-” Brandt blusters, turning red. 

“This file says that Timothy threw a child’s birthday cupcakes into the school swimming pool last month, for which he received a single detention. Last year, Jason was suspended for three days for a dress code violation - untied shoe laces, as I recall.”

Brandt stands up. “Now, wait a minute-”

Alfred rises too. 

“Please tell me more about your  _ exceptional compassion.”  _

*

Out in the hallway ten furious minutes later, he gestures Tim to follow him out. 

He pauses at the receptionist’s desk.

“Madam, can I possibly trouble you to email me a copy of Timothy’s school records?” 

“Of course, Mr Pennyworth.” The young woman smiles prettily. “Bye, Tim.”

“Bye,” the boy mumbles, and follows Alfred outside in silence.

As they drive away, Tim stares out the window and meekly asks, “How bad is it?”

“You’re suspended from school for three days,” he replies bracingly. 

“For cutting class?” He sounds surprised.

“Yes, well.” Alfred sniffs disdainfully, angry with himself for having lost his temper with Brandt. 

He keeps his eyes on the road but can feel the anxiety radiating off the boy sitting next to him. “I’m not angry, but please don’t make a habit of disappearing. I was very worried.”

The boy clutches his backpack tight to his chest. “Sorry.” 

“You are forgiven.” Musing, he adds, “Perhaps we should consider homeschooling”

Tim’s face scrunches up in dismay. 

“Now, don’t make that face. Both Richard and Jason were homeschooled for a time after they arrived.”

“Really? Even Dick was?”

“Yes, indeed,” Alfred nods. “It’s a big adjustment, living in an unfamiliar place with people you don’t know. It’s perfectly alright to take it slow.” 

Tim seems marginally happier after that.

Once home, he fixes Tim a couple of cheese and tomato toasties since the boy apparently missed lunch in addition to his classes. Tim immediately begins devouring the sandwiches like a starving animal. 

“Why did you throw those cupcakes into the pool?”

Tim swallows a huge mouthful of cheese before answering. “Stupid Tanya Tucker. It was her birthday and she’s such a jerk, you know?”

“Was disliking her your only reason?”

“No way!” Tim shakes his head. “She always picks on my friend Ives. Ives is allergic to nuts and stuff. Tanya’s mom told the teacher she’d made the cupcakes allergy-safe. But then when the teacher was gonna hand them out I heard Tanya tell her jerk friends that she put almond flour in when her mom wasn’t looking.”

“Hmph.”

“Right? I tried telling Miss, but she wouldn’t listen. So I just grabbed the box and ran to the pool. I couldn’t just let her  _ kill Ives. _ ” 

He pauses, looking reflectively at his melting toastie. “I guess I could have thrown them in the trash or something.” 

Alfred snorts, making Tim grin at him.   


Alfred leaves Tim contentedly tapping away on his laptop later that afternoon and returns to the main house. 

He checks his email on Bruce's desktop computer in the study, finding that the school has sent Tim’s file already. 

Tim's breach record is frankly intimidating, given this is only his second year in the school. Due to his impressive test scores the Drakes had put Tim ahead a year - something which looks good on a college application, but Alfred knows skipping grades can cause problems for children. Even amiable children can act out. 

There seems to be barely a week that the boy is not in written up for some reason or another. Everything from texting in class to getting caught trying to steal the tyres off the principal's mercedes. 

The date on that one gives him some pause; it was only a few weeks prior that Jason had attempted the same with the batmobile. 

He shakes his head. Was it a passing fad? Or had the knowledge that a boy had been caught trying to steal the batmobile tyres gotten around somehow?

A lot of write ups, but few instances of significant discipline. The teachers, the guidance councillor, did they not raise concerns with the boy’s parents?

What had Brandt said?  _ Par for the course with Tim Drake.   
_

In one of Bruce’s desk drawers he finds a stack of quarterly newsletters from the school, which they had been receiving ever since Dick was enrolled. He flips open one of last year’s letters to a page with a big " _ Thank You!"  _ across the header. 

Listed underneath are parents' names followed by monetary donations to the school. A very short investigation shows that the Drakes are listed almost every month. The amounts vary each time, but seem to correspond to the comparative severity of Tim’s misdoings. 

Well. That explains why Tim hasn’t been expelled.

Perhaps it also explains how a man on a principal's salary can afford a mercedes, and also why Jason doesn't get any slack. Bruce has very strict views on donations being for  _ charitable  _ causes.

For a time he just reads through Tim’s school reports, then checks his watch. It’s late; he will need to prepare dinner for Tim soon.

Upstairs he finds the lad in their little parlour, laptop closed. He’s studying an opening gambit set up on Alfred’s decades’ old chessboard. 

“Do you play?” 

Tim shrugs. “Only a little. Not really.”

“Come and eat. Afterwards we can have a match.”

“OK.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next: Jason and Bruce come home!


	4. Tim

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce and Jason come home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: brief racism.
> 
> Long chapter for you. The next chapter might be a week or so late, I have a lot of work to do on it and I'm also working a lot more hours in November.

Too wound up to sleep, Tim turns on his bedside lamp and retrieves his lockbox from inside the built-in closet.

Sitting cross-legged he opens the box and takes out the folder inside. He flips slowly through the pages of photographs and newspaper clippings, thinking. 

Alfred expected Bruce and Jason to come home in the next couple of days. They knew that Tim was here. Alfred said they were looking forward to meeting him again. He was probably just saying it to be nice, though. 

Tim has had to work hard to conceal his excitement. Well, he had to be a little excited, but not _meeting your heros-_ level excited. Just a normal amount of excited about normal people coming back to their home where they lived normal lives.

This secret-keeping was a lot harder than he’d thought it would be, and Batman isn’t even home yet. Sometimes he thinks he should just come clean to Alfred, who was so nice and patient and would probably not be mad. 

_“Darling, if you tell us the truth I promise your father and I won't be angry. Now, did you-? Were you-? How could you even dare-?”_

It’s easier to say nothing. Tim isn’t stupid enough to think he’d get to live with Alfred forever, but, well, it would be nice to stay here for a while. Maybe if he’s good enough, he can. 

The last photograph in the collection is his favourite, but also the most painful to look at. It shows him and Dick Grayson together at the circus, with their parents standing behind them, on the night Dick’s parents died. 

He can _almost_ recall the sound of the crowd, the smell of the popcorn and the exotic animal musk. He’d only been four at the time. Can he really remember Dick hugging him and looking down at him with a smile so bright, it burned? Or is his brain just making it up from the information in the photo? 

He’s not sure if he remembers the deaths as they actually happened, or as they happened in the nightmares he’d had after. The impact of the bodies; the strange way that Mrs Grayson had sort of… fidgeted, before going still. The screaming boy; the dark, shadowy monster that had descended like a demon and spirited him away. 

He knows that he had cried for what felt like forever after that. He’d annoyed his mom and dad by begging them to try and find Dick and save him from the monster. 

Eventually his dad had gotten fed up and showed Tim the article declaring Dick Grayson had been taken in by Bruce Wayne.

_“See? The kid is fine; that idiot playboy took him for some ungodly reason. As if that little gyppo doesn’t have a pack of oily relations, I’m sure.”_

Tim had kept the article and the photo together. And then he’d happened to watch a newsclip one evening and realised that the monster who had taken Dick away wasn’t a nightmare after all, just Batman. 

He puts the photo away, turning instead to a picture of Jason-as-Robin punching a man in the face. Jason’s bared teeth and the blood spraying from the man’s face are in perfect focus; the rest is all streaky motion. 

The second Robin wasn’t like Batman or Nightwing, or any of the Justice League. Robin operated on the same streets Jason had been surviving on his whole life.

Whether he was helping a lost kid find home, stopping a robbery or punching some asshole’s lights out, Tim got the strong impression that Jason would be doing all that with or without a mask. 

Once at a charity gala held for the Gotham Metropolitan Orchestra last year, Tim had seen how all the rich old biddies and social climbers had swarmed Jason, then still new to his life with Bruce Wayne.

Someone had tittered that Jason must get down on his knees and thank God every night that Bruce Wayne had so generously saved him from a life of hell.

“Get the fuck out of my face.” Jason had calmly replied. 

Tim had been _floored_.

 _Nothing_ Batman or the Joker or Mr Freeze had done could ever compare to Jason Todd telling the most important and richest people in the city to _fuck off._

That simple statement delivered so confidently was exactly the same as Jason punching the thug’s face in. Instead of exposing Jason as an uncultured street rat like the offended people at the party accused him of being, it exposed _them_. They were the real trash. 

His mother had heard Jason’s comment and turned Tim away, her fingers digging into his shoulder. “ _I better not catch you hanging around with that little thug.”_

Tim _couldn’t_ beat the shit out of a bully like Robin could.

He tries baring his teeth like Robin.

“Get the fuck out of my face,” he whispers in the quiet room.

*****

“Hey, what were you doing up there?”

Tim nearly chokes on his apple and stumbles at the sudden voice. There, at the bottom of the stairs, a face is peering at him from around the pantry door. 

It’s Jason Todd.

“Guh,” Tim says.

“You can’t be up there, kid. That’s Alfred’s place, don’t you know you ain’t supposed to go up there? You’ve been here a while, right?”

Tim swallows the bite of apple and hastily shoves the core into his hoodie pocket.

“Uh, a few weeks I guess… but I, uh, but-”

“Jeeze kid, chill,” the older boy interrupts his stammering.

Jason’s got a big bag of cheese and onion chips in his hands. He grins at Tim. “Alfie thinks we don’t know where he hides the good chips. I’m Jason.”

“I know I’m Tim!” he blurts out in a rush.

“You know you’re Tim? Glad to hear it.” Jason says teasingly, heading out through the servant’s passage into the bright, warm kitchen. Tim hurries after him.

“I _know_ you’re Jason,” he tries again. “I’m Tim.”

“I _know_ you’re Tim. You always this twitchy?” Jason asks, clearly amused. 

Tim’s face heats up further. Damn his genetic predisposition to blushing. 

“No.”

“Well, you can just call me Jay. And I won’t tell on you for being up there, but don’t go in Alfie’s space, yeah? No wonder I couldn’t find your ass anywhere, what were you doing up there?”

Tim’s thinking about how to respond to this, but his stupid brain is still stuck in _fanboy mode_ . Robin is talking to him! Jason Todd is _smiling_ at him like he’s actually excited to meet Tim. He needs a minute to just get his bearings here. 

But then he nearly falls off his feet as Bruce Wayne himself strides into the kitchen, Alfred following.

“It’s very nice to see you again, Tim.” Mr Wayne clasps his hand while Tim tries not to stare with dumb amazement. Bruce Wayne is huge. He knew that, but well. It’s like knowing that lions are dangerous. You don’t really appreciate it until you turn a corner and find one there.

“Um, you too!” He replies, then blushes even harder. “To see you, um. It’s nice. Again. I mean-”

“So, which bedroom did you pick?” Jason interrupts. “The one next to mine is empty, it’s pretty OK I think. If you wanted, or whatever.”

“Oh… my room’s next to Alfred’s.” 

Jay’s brows contract in puzzlement, but before he can say anything, Alfred cuts in.

“Master Jason, Timothy is staying in my quarters. In the evenings, at least.” 

“What?” Jay looks back and forth between Bruce and Alfred, still looking confused. “What for?”

“Alfred is his foster parent.” Bruce answers instead. “While we were away, he couldn’t very well leave Tim alone in the main house every night.” 

“But… no one is allowed in Alfred’s place. That was like rule one when I came here. Even Dickhead-”

“Jason,” Mr Wayne hesitates with a half-glance at Alfred. “You know that CPS insists on maintaining as stable a home environment as possible. And Tim needs to stay with his guardian in his residence.” 

“Yeah fine, but we’re back now,” Jay replies, and now he’s starting to sound put out as well as confused. “Why can’t he stay in the main house? It’s all the same ‘residence’ or whatever.”

Bruce gives him a warning look. “We can talk about this later.”

“ _N_ _o one_ but Alfred is allowed in the servant’s quarters! Is Tim a servant or what the hell? He’s freaking seven!” 

“Hey, language!” 

Feeling more like an intruder than ever, Tim glances around and realises that Alfred has evaporated from the discussion. He’s at the kitchen counter, calmly laying out stuff for tonight’s dinner and ignoring Bruce and Jay’s increasingly hissed argument. Tim slips over and tugs his apron. 

“Can I help with the food?” He whispers. 

“Wash your hands first, please.” Alfred replies smoothly. 

Behind him, Tim can hear Bruce saying in a low voice to Jay, “I said we’ll talk about this _later._ Go and unpack, please.”

Jason humphs and stomps out of the room, shooting Tim a glowering look as he goes.

*

By dinner time, Tim knows that Jay is definitely mad. 

It’s more than a little awkward sitting at the table with Bruce and Jason on one side and Alfred and himself on the other, when for the past few weeks it’s just been him and Alfred.

Jason spends the meal glaring at each of them in turn, and glowering at his steak pie in the meantime. 

“Will you be working tonight, Master Bruce?” Alfred queries. Bruce gives a rueful little shrug.

“Unfortunately, yes. That’s what I get for being out of email range for six weeks! Maybe you boys could watch some movies tonight,” Bruce suggests. “Tim, have you seen the media room yet?”

Tim opens his mouth to reply but Jason butts in, whining at Mr Wayne. 

“I thought you and me were doing stuff tonight?” 

Mr Wayne laughs. “And here I thought you were sick of me! All that camping and hiking together not enough bonding time, sport?”

“I-it’s cool, Mr Wayne” Tim assures them. “I mean, thanks anyway, but I’m OK with just going home after dinner.” If anything, Jason looks even more sour at Tim’s phrasing. “You guys just got back, I don’t wanna be in the way.”

Mr Wayne’s aggressively jovial expression softens into something much more natural. 

“You can just call me Bruce,” he says in a quieter voice. “And you’re not in the way, Tim. Stay in your, your _home_ , if that’s what you want. But just so you know, we really are glad to have you here, I’m just sorry it wasn’t under better circumstances.”

Mr Wayne - Bruce - seems to look right through Tim like an x-ray machine, so he drops his eyes to his food and starts hurriedly eating. When he glances up again he catches Bruce and Alfred exchanging a meaningful look.

He’s sorry that Jason doesn’t want to hang out with him. But why would he? If Jay’s hanging out with Tim, then he won’t be out doing Robin stuff. It seems a simple choice to _him._

A little thrill runs down his spine, and he has to be careful not to let it show on his face. It sounds like Batman and Robin are planning to make an appearance tonight. And if Alfred is occupied with whatever he does for Batman, maybe Tim will finally get a chance to go out.

*

Nervously, Tim tiptoes through the manor kitchen and deeper into the house.

Fifteen minutes ago, Alfred had come upstairs to their apartment to check that Tim was in bed as usual. Almost every night since he had been here, Alfred had left the apartment around 8pm and returned at 9pm to tuck Tim in. 

He never came back after 9pm. Tim was sure of it. A couple of times Tim had stayed up all night just to make sure Alfred didn’t check on him after he was asleep. He hadn’t. Tim had heard him come into the apartment and go to bed around 3am, and that was all.

When Alfred had sat down to play chess with Tim for an hour or so after dinner, as they had done every night since his school suspension, Tim had serious trouble staying calm and not squirming. 

Alfred promptly trounced him at every match, and had expressed concern that perhaps Tim was feeling overwhelmed from the new developments.

“No, I’m fine,” Tim assured him. If Alfred was worried, he might not leave. “Let’s go again.”

They had switched colours and Tim made a huge effort to focus on the game and _not_ the prospect of escaping into Gotham City that night. 

Ten minutes later he lost again, but this time it was only a narrow loss, and Alfred seemed mollified.

Now, Tim creeps around peeking into the huge, darkened rooms of the manor and finds everything still and silent. 

He doesn’t know where Batman operates. He’s sure it’s somewhere on the property, but he’s never found any place that looked likely. It gives him a sort of uncomfortable prickly feeling not to know. It feels like Batman might suddenly emerge from any shadow, and although Tim isn’t scared of Batman (anymore), he would rather not be caught. 

Once he’s certain that Mr Wayne and Jason are definitely not in the house, he creeps back to the servants entrance.

He pulls out the electronic keyfob Alfred had given him in his first week. It was the exact same as Alfred’s fob, he knew, because days ago he had swapped them to see if Alfred noticed.

He hadn’t.

The keyfob would allow members of the household to come and go without setting off the house alarm system. There was also a keypad on the outside, and if you knew the combination you could enter without the keyfob. But Alfred hadn’t told him the code. Instead, he told Tim that if he ever went out without his fob or lost it, he should go around to the front of the house and ring the bell, or call Alfred on his cell phone.

Now, he brings the keyfob up to little black box with the glowing red light next to the door. He can feel sweat breaking out across his back, and bites his lip. He wishes that he’d thought to try the fob at night before now.

When the card is close enough, the black box gives a quiet beep and the light turns green. He hears the door click, and quickly opens and darts through it, heart racing.

He lets out a shaky breath and grins to himself as the door shuts silently behind him. That wasn’t so hard. 

_How do I get out of here?_

If he’d had his bike it would be easy to find a way out quickly. But he’d not mentioned it to Alfred when he picked him up from the school office, so it’s still locked up in the bike shed at school.

He’s not too worried though. Shrewdly, he suspects that he isn’t the first boy to sneak out from Wayne Manor. It’s just a matter of figuring out how the others did it. 

He jogs around the house to the main drive and makes his way briskly to the gates, which are almost a ten minute walk. At this rate, by the time he gets out of here he’ll probably have to turn right around and go back in!

He approaches the gate carefully, looking for cameras. He knows there’s at least one, because he’s seen it on the little integrated intercom screen inside the front entrance of the manor when Alfred has buzzed visitors in. 

The iron bars of the gate look too narrow to slip through, anyway. That means he needs to follow the stone wall either to the left or right. 

Which way to go? His natural inclination is to turn left, which would take him to the point on the property nearest to the city. But he knows that the closest bus stop is the other way down the road, on the right.

He follows the wall to the right. 

In the shadow of the wall, it’s hard to see where he’s going and he doesn’t dare turn on his phone’s flashlight. He brushes his hand along the wall as he walks to help keep his balance, while looking around for something to help him get out. 

After a minute or so of walking, his hand brushes against a piece of metal sticking out of the wall.

Tim stops and peers at the thing protruding from the wall. It looks like a really big nail has been hammered into the concrete between the bricks, and he’s puzzled why it’s here. Glancing down, Tim realises that there’s another one lower on the wall. They’re spaced about a foot apart, or shoulder width when he stands facing them. Tim looks up.

There are more big nails zig zagging up the wall. He grins; wondering which boy was responsible for their placement. Tim puts his foot on the lowest nail and pushes himself up cautiously; the nail holds his weight. He reaches up to the next hold, at the same time bringing his other foot up. 

The spacing is a little bit of a stretch for him, but it’s not a hard climb by any means. At the top he peers over the other side and sees the same number of nails progressing down to the ground. 

Within a minute he’s jogging along the street to the bus stop, checking the time on his phone to see that he should have only a few minutes to wait. He knows the Bristol night bus schedule off by heart by now, and knows that in order to be back inside the house no later than 2am, he’ll need to leave Gotham by 1:15am. 

That gives him just a few hours to track down Batman and Robin and get some photos. It’s a lot more hassle for a lot less time than he’s used to, but as he rides the bus into town, Tim can’t help feeling elated at the challenge.

*

Tim yawns hugely. Across the table, Jason yawns too, then glares.

“Damn, you got me going.”

“Sorry,” Tim mumbles, repressing another big yawn. 

It's the next morning, and the two boys are sitting in the little breakfast nook in the manor kitchen.

“Language, Master Jason,” Alfred chides, placing a glass of orange juice in front of each of them. He turns his sharp old hound’s eyes on Tim, who has to resist the urge to squirm guiltily. “Did you not sleep well?”

“Um. Nightmares.” Tim shrugs. Then, because Alfred looks like he’s about to say something else, he asks, “So, where’s Mr Wayne this morning?”

“Sleeping in,” Jay says, rolling his eyes. “Rich people just sleep their whole lives away.”

Killer Croc had dropped a brick chimney top on Batman last night. Robin had had to call in Batgirl for support. Tim had the photos to prove it. 

This morning, Jason didn’t have a scratch on him - or didn’t _appear_ to, anyway. He digs into his egg white omelette and turkey bacon with enthusiasm.

“You got school today?” Jay shoots at him, just as Tim is taking a gulp of juice. Jay smirks when Tim chokes, making Tim think he did it on purpose.

“I’m still suspended,” Tim replies, when he can speak. 

“Me too. I mean, I ain’t suspended, but I’m not due back in class yet.” 

“How come you got so much time off and stuff?” Tim asks, keen to keep the conversation going now that Jay seemed to be in good mood. 

“On paper? Because I finished all my assignments ahead of time and only have the extra credit stuff and exams left to do,” Jay explains. “In reality? Because Bruce Wayne wanted to go on an extra long camping trip with his kid and the school administrators are too sycophantic to say no.”

“What’s sycophantic mean?” 

“Means that people kiss his ass.” Jay grumbles, then adds “Sorry, Alfie,” at Alfred’s severe glance. 

The two boys share a grin as the butler turns away to make coffee for himself and Mr Wayne.

“Seeing as we’re both free, wanna play something? I got Smash Bros.” Jay offers, and Tim tries not to like, _explode_ with happiness.

“Yeah, cool! But actually I gotta do my chores and stuff first.” 

Jay’s smile drops. “You do chores?”

“Well… yeah,” Tim says tentatively, not sure why Jay seems to be getting annoyed again. It's not like Jason doesn't do chores, right?

“And, what, you get an allowance for _doing chores?_ ” 

“Um, yeah. Alfred pays me…” He glances around as Alfred approaches looking wary.

“So you _are_ a servant then,” Jay said harshly, throwing his napkin over his half-finished breakfast and shoving away from the table. 

“Master Jason, perhaps the work would be completed faster if you would like to help Tim-” Jason’s eyes seemed to burn with anger at the mention of Tim’s name. 

“Why the hell would I do that? _I’m_ not a servant!” Jason yelled, then stomped away. 

“I’m sorry,” Tim said quietly, feeling dizzy at the speed of Jason's mood swings. Usually he knew why he made someone mad, but this time he honestly had no idea what he’d done wrong. So how could he know what not to do in future?

Alfred looked back at him and sighed, which made the knot in Tim’s belly tighten painfully. 

“I’m sorry,” Tim said again, his breath starting to hitch. “I’m sorry, I’m really suh-sorry.”

“Tim-”

“I - I'm-”

Alfred sits next to him in the nook and puts his arms around Tim, which is nice, but Tim grabs his own napkin and covers his face. He doesn’t want to ruin Alfred’s clean shirt. 

*

He feels stupid for crying. Crying over _nothing._ After he’d calmed down a bit, Alfred had told him that he wasn’t angry, that Tim wasn’t to blame, and not to take Jason’s outburst personally. 

“Jason has had a difficult life, and sometimes changes to his routine can be upsetting. I’m not excusing his behaviour, however, and Master Bruce and I will speak to him.” 

“Oh, no,” Tim gasped. “Please, that’s OK - I’m fine. Don’t bother him.”

Alfred had patted his back, smiling delicately. “You’re a good boy, Tim. You and Jason will be good friends.”

Tim wasn’t so sure.

Jason finds him again in the mid-afternoon, probably after his “talk” with Alfred and Bruce, judging by his guilty-resentful expression. He comes upon Tim morosely polishing the furniture in the main parlour, the TV turned on low for company. 

“Hey,” Jay says gruffly. 

Tim looks up. “Hi,” he says, then goes back to polishing the coffee table. 

“Sorry about before. For yellin’. I didn’t mean that shi...that stuff.” 

Tim shrugs. “It’s cool.” 

“Yeah, but no,” Jay replies. “I was bein’ a jerk. Just… I didn’t expect you to be living with Alfie. I mean, in the house yeah. But not like… _with Alfred.”_ He says this last part with so much significance that Tim has to stop polishing and look at him. 

Jay’s staring at the floor, brows furrowed, but he glances up when he feels Tim’s eyes on him.

“Alfie’s the best, you know that, right?” 

Tim swallowed and nodded. He did know. 

“But Bruce is awesome too, right?” Tim blurts out. Then flushes at Jay’s surprised expression. “I mean… he took you camping for like a month and a half, right? My folks’d never do that.” 

Tim can’t even remember the last time he’d seen his parents for as long as a month. 

Jay shrugs. “Yeah, I guess he’s OK. For a _dandy.”_ Jason starts tidying up some books, putting them back on their shelves. “So, I heard you were pretty banged up when you got here.” 

“I guess.”

“That’s rough. My dad was a total cun- ah, creep, too.”

“Oh no, he didn’t hit me. They’d never _hit_ me.” Tim quickly reassured him. “I got in a fight in the group home I was in before I came here.” 

“Yeah? Pipsqueak like you? Jeeze, I’d hate to see the other guy.” Jason snorted. “So, your folks didn’t beat yah, what’re you in for then?”

“I don’t know,” Tim shrugged. “They just left for a long time, I guess.”

Jason turned to him looking unconvinced, but at that moment Tim’s attention is caught by the sound of his own name coming from the TV.

_“... Drake Industries. The authorities discovered evidence of extensive fraud and market abuse after obtaining a warrant to enter the Drakes’ home and seize their belongs. DI stock price was down over 47% and dropping on release of a statement by…”_

“Oh fuck,” Jay swore loudly. “Shit, isn’t that your dad?” 

Tim stares at the images on the screen of his parents, alongside some people he recognises as DI board members. 

“Tim.” He turns and sees Alfred standing there with Bruce just behind him, both looking very serious. “We’ve just heard from - ah.” Alfred cuts himself off as he realises the news segment beat him to it. 

Behind him, Tim hears the chipper voice of the news anchor saying that his parents had been arrested and were being held in a federal detention centre before facing trial in Gotham. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jason is a complicated baby and I love him.


End file.
